Such Fair Ostents
by Yeade
Summary: Negotiations between Thorin and Bard prior to the Battle of Five Armies take a strange turn when an ancient Dwarven tradition comes to light.
1. Chapter 1

Trying out shorter chapters, since this story looks to be at least twice the length of my previous one-shots. Written for the Hobbit Kink Meme (hobbit_kink on LJ), as always, where I latched onto another Thorin/Bard prompt. Because, also predictably perhaps, that's the pairing I've got on the brain, despite current fandom trends and my not-so-sekrit personal ambition to ship Bard with every character I can halfway convince myself to. Originally meant to be more lighthearted crack, the fic took a decidedly serious turn in Bard's POV and has now settled a bit on the dramatic end of the comedy scale. Here's hoping some parts are still funny!

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**Such Fair Ostents**

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Glimmering in Bard's hand was the Arkenstone, bright as a splinter of the moon caught in ice and unmistakable. Thorin was astounded. "What sorcery is this?" he asked sharply. "How came you by the heirloom of my house?"

Bard did not answer. Instead he said, "Can we not now agree to terms, Thorin son of Thráin?" His voice was even and his gaze steady on Thorin, carefully not searching out any other familiar figures that might be on the ramparts.

From where he stood watching next to Balin, Bilbo gulped and tried not to fidget. Grateful as he was that Bard, unable to convince him of the folly of returning to Thorin's side, wished to keep him from Thorin's ire by not naming him a thief, he was afraid it would only serve to anger Thorin more. And then his betrayal—and it _was_ a betrayal, by the twisting of his heart in his chest—will have availed them nothing and failed to prevent the bloodshed he dreaded, desperately.

Thorin's shoulders were tense beneath his armor and heavy mantle of fur, his knuckles white as his grip tightened on the stone parapet. "How came you by the King's Jewel?" he demanded again, voice rising. This time, Bard's eyes darted to Bilbo, but Bilbo could see in the stubborn line of his jaw that the fool man did not intend to ever answer Thorin.

"It was my doing, Thorin." Bilbo stepped forward before he could regret it. Though he almost faltered under the stare Thorin, whirling, pinned him with, so filled was it with stunned confusion, he forced his spine straight and his head up. The splendid shirt of mail Thorin had gifted him weighed upon his shoulders as if it were wrought of pure gold, not featherlight truesilver. "I gave the Arkenstone to Bard." Had Gandalf counseled wisely? Was there need for him to fear Thorin? He didn't want to believe that.

"You! _You!_" Bilbo could not help it. He flinched at Thorin's strangled cry, the words ringing harsh in the still air like the sound of a sword drawn from its sheath. "I should have known!" Thorin's eyes were bright, wet with a sheen of tears, and his hands trembled where they were clenched into fists at his sides. He strode towards Bilbo in a rush, pushing away Fíli, Kíli, anyone who moved to bar his path and deaf to Balin's pleas that he not act rashly.

For a moment, Bilbo considered fleeing, but some part of him balked at the idea, like a cord of steel had, unbeknownst to him, become woven into his every fiber. Surely, he felt, if he did not run, it would not be cowardice to shut his eyes so he could remember Thorin as his friend? He did just that, his own breathing loud in his ears, and waited for his doom.

When Thorin's strong hands finally closed on him, though, they did not wrap around his throat, choking, as he half expected them to but around his middle in a bone-crushing hug that lifted him clear off his feet. Bilbo wheezed, the air that had not fled his lungs in his shocked relief squeezed out of him. His head spun, and he flailed—quite uselessly, in fact, his arms trapped at his sides, only succeeding in bruising himself on the hard points of Thorin's armor and inhaling a goodly hank of Thorin's dark hair, pressed against his face.

At last, Thorin seemed to recognize that Bilbo's need to breathe was growing dire and released him. He even rubbed Bilbo's back in small, comforting circles as Bilbo gasped, heart racing, before elation chased concern from his face and he slung an arm about Bilbo's shoulders, almost sending them both sprawling to the floor.

"You are a true friend, Master Baggins," Thorin said to him, grinning proudly, "to know my heart so well." And Bilbo thought, _Wha—?_ He sputtered; Thorin merely looked amused and terribly fond.

"I should have known," he continued, "that I could not hide my desire from your keen eyes." His expression softened further into a rueful smile. Bilbo blinked. He could not mean that he _wanted_ Bard to have the Arkenstone, could he? "I had hoped to surprise you"—Bilbo had to bite his cheek, a sharp retort on his tongue—"yet as always you have surprised me. Truly, Hobbits are amazing creatures." He chuckled and, with another mangling hug, left Bilbo winded but no less baffled.

Thorin had brooded long after his parley with Bard, then commanded the Company to make more haste in scouring the treasure hoard for the Arkenstone, frowning darkly at the damage done by Smaug to the Mountain's halls and stilling whenever Bard's name was mentioned or his promise to share Erebor's wealth. So frightful was Thorin at those times, eyes agleam with a feverish energy and body drawn taut as a fiddle string, that the Company soon stopped asking. Contrary to Thorin's belief, Bilbo had no earthly idea what was running through the Dwarf's mind, confound him! And neither did the others, if their gaping looks of pained uncertainty were anything to judge by.

Later, Bilbo decided one of them should have pulled Thorin aside for an explanation. But they were so occupied exchanging puzzled noises—and, Bilbo admitted, reluctant to learn what new madness possessed Thorin—that he was able to lean out over the parapet unopposed and shout, "You have accepted my suit then, Dragonslayer, and my hand in marriage?" Every head snapped around to stare at Thorin with such alacrity that Bilbo swore there was an audible sound of necks cracking.

Bard jerked in surprise, eyes widening, and nearly toppled from his horse. He righted himself with a curse but did fumble the Arkenstone, and Bilbo squeaked as the great white jewel pitched towards the ground, imagining the royal heirloom of the House of Durin shattered into a thousand pieces. Luckily, a slim, long-fingered hand, pale as starlight, reached forth to catch it with the speed and grace of Elvish reflexes. While nothing so crass as shock showed on the Elvenking's fair face, there was a... distinctly nonplussed air about him, his head tilted and one elegant eyebrow arched.

"Thorin, y-you can't be serious...?" Bilbo said weakly. Thorin, however, was too rapt gazing down at Bard, engaged in a hissing conversation with the Elvenking and now Gandalf, to answer, so he turned to Balin. Who, to Bilbo's consternation, was beginning to look as if he'd come to a sudden and pleasant realization. "Can he?" Understanding was similarly dawning on the faces of the rest of the Company, and Bilbo thought, with a sinking feeling, that Thorin was indeed as serious as ever.

"Well, that is a relief!" said Kíli. "And here we all feared—" He shared a solemn glance with Fíli, swallowing nervously, before shaking his head with a chuckle. "Mother always did warn us that he was 'prone to dramatics.' She's going to have his beard for this. Especially as she'll miss the ceremonies!" Sobering, he added quietly, "Perhaps he would have confided in us earlier, had we not been so quick to mistrust his motives." There were murmurs of agreement, and even Bilbo was given pause, though he in truth found Thorin's actions stranger than when the dragon sickness was to blame.

"Come, Brother," Fíli said, squaring his shoulders, "Let us be the first to offer our congratulations to Uncle." Watching Thorin, who seemed wreathed in smiles as he accepted his sister-sons' wishes, his grim mood of the past few days banished like fog at the sun's rising, Bilbo was quite unexpectedly reminded of his least favorite Uncle Longo.

"He's sore as a bear with a wounded paw over that Sackville chit tossing out his flowers," his mother had told his father after one visit to Uncle Longo's, stamping her foot in exasperation. "Fuming and snarling like a hungry dragon in its lair... and just as apt to take a bite out of the company!" She sighed, absently thanking Bilbo for the cup of tea he handed her as she settled into her armchair by the fire. "I'll be glad when they're finally wed, Bungo dear, if only it'll spare Belba and me this _dreadful_ courtship."

At the time, Bilbo thought his mother had exaggerated, for she had a love of colorful speech that exceeded any other except, perhaps, the affection she bore for husband and son; Uncle Longo was all smiles at the handfasting, graciously greeting the guests with his blushing bride-to-be on his arm. Were the trials of courtship truly so terrible? Could they turn even so stout a Dwarf as Thorin... dragonish?

_But Thorin and_—his mind stuttered, shying from the idea—_and Bard?_ Bilbo knew little of how Men and Dwarves went about courting, but he did not feel it likely that their customs were so different from those of Hobbits that suitors wooed their intendeds by insulting them and their ancestors in the town square instead of with sweet endearments whispered in their ears. No, he decided, pinching the bridge of his nose, this had to be a mistake. A misunderstanding or a, a _ruse_, to stall the Elves from trying the Mountain's defenses maybe.

"Thorin Oakenshield," called Gandalf from below, "I think it's best that you come down for some explanations." To Bilbo's comfort, there was a note of bemusement in Gandalf's voice, too, seldom heard. Behind him, a scowling Bard, safely dismounted, waited with arms crossed for the Elvenking to do the same. His face darkened further until he resembled nothing so much as a towering thundercloud when the Elvenking held out the Arkenstone with an imperious hand for him to take back. Take it Bard did, however, like it was a coiled snake about to strike.

Until this moment, Bilbo had only half believed that Smaug was slain and by the bargeman they'd met collecting barrels on the river, his appearance worn if his aim was unerring. But the glare Bard skewered the Elvenking, the Arkenstone, and Thorin with in turn was so fierce, cold and flashing as sharp steel in the moonlight, that Bilbo thought, yes, this was one who could have braved dragonfire to fell the beast that had laid waste to cities with a single mighty shot from his bow. A slightly hysterical laugh wanted to bubble up in his chest. Thorin had best tread carefully around Bard, or Smaug's killer might just succeed where the dragon had failed.

"What a great mess you've made of things, Bilbo Baggins," he berated himself under his breath. He was a fool to suppose that giving Bard the Arkenstone would solve their problems. Still, at least there was no more talk of war and the matter was out of his too-small Hobbit hands, which were ill-suited to meddling in the affairs of kings. _Gandalf will set them straight._ Why, Bilbo figured that's what Gandalf did—counsel the high lords of distant lands in their halls of stone—when he wasn't at his excellent fireworks or a pipe of Old Toby, on account of being one of the less magical Wizards.

"Gladly, Gandalf," Thorin replied with an amiable nod. "Balin, Bilbo, with me." Bilbo started. _Wha—?_ He sputtered in protest. Thorin ignored him, of course, already heading for the stairs with a jaunty spring in his step and clearly expecting them to follow. "The rest of you stay here. Soon, my friends, we shall be toasting to my nuptials!" Picturing Bard's glower, Bilbo thought glumly that Thorin was bound to be disappointed, whatever it was he wanted of the man.

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_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

Here's some angst and courtship fail for Valentine's Day! XD

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**Such Fair Ostents**

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"...is indeed an ancient tradition of our people," said the white-haired Dwarf who'd this time introduced himself as, "Balin son of Fundin, at your service. I shall be acting as officiant in the suit of Thorin son of Thráin, King Under the Mountain, for the hand in marriage of Bard, slayer of the dragon Smaug and heir to Girion, Lord of Dale."

It had taken all the control Bard possessed to not snap at the Dwarves that there would be _no marriage_, and he sorely regretted giving the Wizard his word that he would hear Oakenshield's proposal in full before rejecting it. That had been when he yet believed Oakenshield to be in jest or pursuing some design to sow confusion in their ranks, but if so the trick had run too long and towards no strategic end that he could see. He remembered Balin from the river landing, besides, where smooth manners and the clink of coin had convinced him to folly. _And now here I am_, Bard thought bitterly, _listening to this farce._

"Since the days of yore," Balin continued, voice falling into the cadences of story, "the great wealth of the Dwarves has tempted the greed of dragons. To slay one of these foul beasts, even a lesser wyrm, and live is no small feat and has come to be deemed a sign of Mahal's high favor." The Elvenking and the Wizard, Oakenshield, Balin, and the Halfling stood in a loose circle—an impromptu council, convened after his and Thranduil's mounts were led away and the party from Erebor descended the barricade to join them—far enough from the gathered armies that their discussions would be privy, so long as nobody lost his temper.

Which was why Bard had removed himself to one side, where he paced. And tried to ignore how Oakenshield's eyes followed him. "A dragonslayer's hand in marriage is thus much sought after, for only by this most sacred and intimate covenant betwixt two souls"—Bard growled as he felt again Oakenshield's gaze across his shoulders like a burning brand—"can that fortune be a blessing upon one's house, the heart and will that vanquished a dragon bound forevermore to one's line."

If he thought, for a single moment, that he could knock sense into Oakenshield's head, Bard would not have hesitated to throw the Arkenstone, his cursed _betrothal gift_, at him and damn the diplomatic niceties! But he was beginning to doubt that even so forceful a spurn would dissuade the Dwarf from this absurdity, and it might very well be taken as assent on his part, for all Bard knew. "It is also one of the few ways," finished Balin, with a nod at Oakenshield, "whereby one not of noble standing can wed into the blood royal."

His regard not straying from Bard, Oakenshield shouted, "Glóin!" While the Dwarf had been mildly disappointed—Bard raked an agitated hand through his hair, grimacing—that Bard didn't swoon at his feet, instead greeting him with a curt demand that he state his intentions, this seemed not to have cooled his ardor. Quite the contrary, after gravely agreeing that it was proper for them to first negotiate a contract, Oakenshield had bared his teeth in a slow grin and told Bard, "It pleases me to find you as unbending in this as in all else." Bard had stalked off at that, his hand clenched on the hilt of his sword.

Another Dwarf popped his helmed head over the parapet above. Bard groaned at the sight; it was the one who'd balked at paying him. "Aye, my grandfather took to wife a dragonslayer," Glóin said. "Grandmother was of no rank but was an uncommon beauty and warrior, who singlehandedly hew to death with her ax a cold-drake when Náin ruled in the Grey Mountains." Pride fairly radiated from Glóin, a touch of envy in his voice, while Bard stared in faint horror.

He would not wish battle with a dragon on his worst enemy, and the idea of his wife or daughter, his mother, his grandmother splattered with blood, plunging a blade over and again into some coiling monster as a jaw of razor teeth sought to close around them, claws like spears gouging at their flesh—it sickened him, though he did not question that they had the courage, if not the strength of arms, to face one. His mouth tightened into a thin, hard seam. He did not understand these Dwarves and likely never would.

Glóin continued, gruffly fond, "She was courted by many and refused all until Farin." He tapped the flat of his ax against his helm, a smile near hidden in his long beard. "It is to her that my father, my son, and I owe our red hair, for she was of the Firebeards, and family legend tells that 'tis a mark of her luck, still running strong in our veins." Testimony related, the Dwarf popped back down. But not before winking suggestively at Bard, who stiffened.

"And so it has proven," Balin added, nodding sagely, "for Gróin met with success in his every venture and Glóin in his craft, trade and commerce, while young Gimli shows especial promise as a warrior." He studied Bard from head to toe, a speculative glint in his eye, then sighed. Bard suspected that he was not going to care for what Balin had to say next. "A pity that you were not born a woman—"

Bard could not stay the outraged noise that escaped his gritted teeth, his hackles rising. He was about to lash a well-deserved strip from Balin's sorry hide, angry words crowding his tongue, when Oakenshield chuckled, the sound low and curling. "Balin," he chided gently, "you know that the fairer sex never held any interest for me." Bard choked.

Turning to him with a look of reassurance that Bard didn't find reassuring in the least and tone apologetic, Oakenshield explained, "My heirs were always meant to be of my blood but not of my body: my sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli"—two more Dwarves, one fair and the other dark, waved cheerfully at Bard from the ramparts; they were the ones who'd seen that his home became a sickroom and a charnel—"or in a better world the children of my brother Frerin."

Oakenshield's voice deepened, rumbling from his throat; an itch prickled at the nape of Bard's neck. "Pay no heed to Balin in this, my intended." The Dwarf's heavy-lidded eyes swept over Bard in appraisal, unhurried and distinctly more... appreciative than Balin's. Though Bard was not by nature a violent man, when that heated gaze lingered overlong on the line from shoulder to hip, such a fury awoke in him, bright and throbbing red at the edges of his vision, that he surely would've staved Oakenshield's head in with his bare fist had the Wizard not coughed, loudly and pointedly, jarring him. Unable to decide who to glare at, Bard finally put his back to them all. His mood was not improved by the curious glances the waiting Men and even Elves sent their way.

"—but that cannot be helped," resumed Balin, unfazed, "and Smaug was no lesser wyrm." He hummed in consideration. "Lord Bard's deed is unequaled in the annals of the Dwarves, forsooth, and has already brought us commensurate fortune—Erebor reclaimed by our people, the curse of the gold sickness lifted.

"While for the nonce, with Smaug's demise less than a month past and a royal suit of the highest order in force, no other offers for Lord Bard's hand have been made, I expect that as word spreads this shall be the most contested courtship in, why, almost a thousand years." Balin's speech held a scholar's excitement at a historical rarity. Until Oakenshield grunted, displeased. "Ah, my pardons, Thorin. I did not mean to cast doubt on your success."

Bard didn't know which dismayed him more: to hear himself titled a lord, his new renown as a living talisman, or the prospect of a horde of Dwarven suitors. He rubbed at his face with a weary hand, shoulders hunching. _I want no part in any of this._ Behind him, the Elvenking said, "What assurances can you offer that you are not afflicted as your grandfather was and this not merely a scheme to delay whilst your kin march upon us?"

Thranduil, cool disdain mantling him like a thick fall of snow, seemed wholly unaffected by this queer development, except perhaps in his stillness and silence. While Bard had paced and seethed, the Elvenking stood unmoving as a tall beech; Bard envied Thranduil his composure, though it was unsettling also. For he could read in neither fair features nor proud bearing whether Thranduil saw in Oakenshield's proposal a bloodless means to Erebor's treasure and approved of it. He was not blind to that possibility himself, but... _Would I be a gold digger or a whore?_ His stomach knotted, and he crossed his arms, swallowing the urge to flee.

"You have my word," Oakenshield answered stiffly, "and should you deem that insufficient, Elvenking, my person." At that, Bard spun on his heel, torn between disbelief and wariness. Only to meet Oakenshield's eyes, darkened now with a candor that startled him, the Dwarf watching him again despite addressing Thranduil. Oakenshield cleared his throat.

"It has come to my attention," he said quietly, "that in my eagerness to press my suit, I may have neglected my courtesies and other matters of importance." He inclined his head at Bard. Who breathed a little easier at the polite, if solicitous, distance in Oakenshield's gaze. _A trick_, he thought. A mask to lull him into forgetting the Dwarf's unchanged purpose. Yet some of his tension eased, and his heart calmed from the frantic beat he had not noticed. "Ask of me what you will, my lord Bard."

His name took on a warm solidity upon Oakenshield's tongue, which had never before shaped its syllables. Bard worried at his sword belt; he'd grown unused to the weight of leather and steel at his waist since his days as a guardsman. There was, in truth, but one question that he needed Oakenshield to assent to, and it was the same as when they'd parleyed with a wall of stone between them. "What of your word that all will share in the wealth of the Mountain?"

Oakenshield nodded, unsurprised. He clasped his hands at his back and canted about slightly in an odd wobble, half a bow, then spoke, his tone and words measured. "The Master of Laketown I admit I mistrusted and might have played false, as he no doubt would have done me." Bard snorted. He could not dispute that, being no stranger himself to the bribes and alleyway deals that steered the course of trade under the Master's rule. "But a portion of the treasure I will gladly part with as a dowry, for you to spend as you desire, my intended." Though there was nothing of demand in Oakenshield's stance—the Dwarf looked as if he'd be content to wait for acceptance or rejection until they were both graybeards—still, Bard's breath hitched.

_As I feared._ He stared for a long moment at the milling Men, simple farmers and fisherfolk who'd been unable to keep ranks with the discipline of the Elven army, and at Dale farther across the field, where his children sheltered in ruins, cold and hungry. None of them could wait even a season for the aid the gold in the Mountain could buy and speed up the river from Rhûn. "Then why did you earlier refuse me?" he asked Oakenshield. His voice sounded small in his own ears, muffled. "Why fence yourself in your hold?"

The sudden chagrin that broke Oakenshield's calm was not enough to dispel the numbness that filled his chest, but Bard felt a tickling satisfaction to see it nevertheless. Oakenshield toed a rock aside with his boot and mumbled to it, " 'Twas a diversion." He sighed heavily before straightening in grim resolve. "I had not a fitting betrothal gift. No common gem would serve for a dragonslayer of your lineage, and the Arkenstone could not be found, hard as I bent my will towards seeking it." He clapped a hand to the shoulder of the Halfling, standing on his left.

Master Baggins had been trying his unobtrusive best to vanish into thin air since their council began but squeaked as Oakenshield gave him a brotherly shake; he so resembled a rabbit caught in a trap that Bard was moved to pity despite the Halfling's role in bringing them to this end. Played unwittingly, if he judged aright, and he hoped he did. "Little did I realize that among my company was a friend who could not only see to the heart of my doings but would take it upon himself to brave my intended's honor guard and present my suit," said Oakenshield, fondness softening every line of his body. The Halfling twitched, his eyes darting from Bard to the Elvenking to the Wizard in mute appeal.

_You need not worry that we shall betray you, Bilbo Baggins._ However sour the thought tasted, Bard did not begrudge—not truly, no, when he remembered an attempt at conversation, halting in its sincerity, as his barge crossed the lake—letting Oakenshield continue to believe, as the Wizard suggested, that the Halfling had knowingly offered the heirloom of his house to his... intended rather than to his enemies. Even the Elvenking readily agreed, for he would not have harm come to one who had no stake in their quarrels besides averting war so that his friends may live. An admirable sentiment, Thranduil had commented after the Halfling left to be shown his bed for the night, and a guileless one.

But what was this nonsense about an honor guard? Half a dozen of his fellow guardsmen had been conscripted as escorts when he wed his wife, but their duties did not amount to much beyond plying the guests with ale and wildly exaggerated tales of his youthful follies.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, his bride's laughs brushing again over the skin of his neck—she had sat with her golden head tucked against his cheek, so lovely in her joy that he passed the hours in a daze—before he frowned. Bard was at a loss as to who Oakenshield could possibly have mistaken for a wedding party, unless... He stifled a groan, aching for a reprieve to bury his face in his hands. _The Elves!_

He dared not glance at the Elvenking. Who shifted minutely, more a ripple in the air than any movement of limb or body, yet somehow managed to convey the unfathomable depths of his displeasure. Oakenshield's insistence that Bard dismiss the Elves, as if they were Bard's to command; his brazenness in loosing an arrow at Thranduil, not daunted by the threat of a thousandfold reprisal—had they been going through the motions of another damnably obscure Dwarven marriage custom all this time? Heat crawled up his neck, until his cheeks burned with it.

When Oakenshield inhaled sharply, gaze turning molten in a flash of _want_, Bard had to bite his lip not to curse. A scream of frustration clawed at the back of his throat when Oakenshield's eyes simply fixed on his mouth, tracing the shape of it as the Dwarf's breathing went ragged at the edges. Was there naught he could do that Oakenshield wouldn't find...?

The words that paraded in his mind were ones he couldn't imagine that he bore well: a middle-aged widower with three children and gray in his hair; hands roughened by labor, face creased by cares, and clad in tattered raiment, a mud-stained coat shrugged on over borrowed mail. He might have preferred it when he thought Oakenshield held only contempt for him. The man whose ancestor had failed to kill the dragon. Though slaying Smaug had won him little enough. A few useless titles, a ramshackle town, a following of destitute people. _And a suitor, unlooked for._

"As to the second," Oakenshield was saying, after several coughs, "you cannot be allowed entrance into Erebor with the dragon's wrack still to be set to rights." Bard stared. "It would not be seemly," finished Oakenshield, as if this explained all, and apparently, for a Dwarf, it did, Balin nodding.

The ground tilted beneath his feet with a lurch, slipping out from under him. The whisper of his wife's hair against his palms, the taste of her smile, and the spread of Oakenshield's shoulders, a strong brow and jutting nose, deep eyes that brooded upon him, hungering—it was too much, _too close_. He shuddered, a hook dragging at his insides.

Grasping at the idea like a drowning man would a raft of driftwood, Bard gritted out, "Perhaps it has escaped your notice, my lords, but I am no Dwarf." There was no shrinking from this—the tight way Sigrid and Bain clung to him in sleep; Tilda's trusting face, the rest of them, when winter was no beast he could fell with an arrow—though he felt a hollowed cage of brittle bone. "Of what relevance is this... tradition of yours to a Man?" He sneered and hated himself for acting as the Master, Alfrid. But he didn't have to make it easy for Oakenshield.

Both Dwarves hesitated, wincing in unison. _Good_, thought Bard viciously. "Yes," Balin finally admitted with reluctance, "that has caused... problems in the past." Bard waited impatiently for him to continue, but it was the Elvenking who observed, tone cutting as a wind from the northern wastes, "You speak of your feud with the Éothéod." Bard blinked. That was the name of no people he'd ever heard of.

Which meant, of course, that they were again debating events centuries before his time. He scowled. At least the Halfling was equally puzzled, sidling up with the lost air of a stranger at a family reunion to the Wizard, who hummed in contemplation. Oakenshield at last relented in his glaring at the Elvenking, who did not deign to see it, and sighed.

"Fram, slayer of Scatha the Worm, was a proud Man and not one to part lightly with his treasures," he told Bard and Master Baggins. "He did not take kindly to Dwarves asking for his daughter's hand nor a share of Scatha's hoard, as her dowry." _His daughter?_ A certain cold suspicion was beginning to creep into Bard's heart.

"So, too, it must be said that while Fram did the Dwarves—our distant kin, not of the Longbeards—great insult by sending them a necklace made of Scatha's teeth," Balin added, "their lord was uncommonly quick to anger." Oakenshield nodded curtly, lips pursed. "Jealous we can be, and a suitor spurned will oft have none other"—Bard started, studying Oakenshield anew, who now maddeningly avoided _his_ gaze—"yet Fram's wrong did not deserve a worse turn that saw Men and Dwarves estranged."

In Balin's pause, Bard read bloodshed and was sure that Fram died upon the ax of a jilted Dwarf. He didn't know whether to be terrified at how deadly earnest Dwarves were in wooing or comforted that Oakenshield was not toying with him to, to... Bile rose choking in his throat; he forced himself to swallow, to breathe. No, as arrogant as Oakenshield could be and unforgiving, he was not capable of such a calculated cruelty. Bard dearly hoped not.

"But you are of Dale," said Balin, cheering, "and Lord Girion respected our customs." He chuckled, a blithe noise that Bard resented. "Why, had he been the one to slay Smaug, Thrór and Thráin might well have offered Thorin's hand in marriage to..." Balin smoothed his fingers down first one tail of his beard, then the other. "Not him, as he was already wed, nor his eldest son, whose line was heir to Dale, but mayhaps his younger son, your own forefather, or a future scion of his house, the span of our lives being thrice yours." A speculative glint entered his eyes; Bard stiffened, having learnt that Balin's wiles were to be feared. "If you are averse to plighting troth with Thorin, one of your daugh—"

"_No_," Bard hissed, suddenly so furious he felt he might fly to pieces, his skin too tight to contain him. He was only dimly aware of the Halfling scuttling nearer to the Wizard, the Elvenking's head turning, the harsh rasp of his breath in his chest and bite of his nails into the palms of his shaking, clenched hands. But Oakenshield's voice rang clear as a trumpet at dawn in rebuke. "Balin, they are yet children."

To Bard, he said, "You must excuse Balin his untoward desire for me to beget an heir." Balin bent his head in apology, expression so sincerely contrite that it was difficult for Bard to keep hold of his rage. It drained from him, slow as a leeching of blood, and left him trembling, dizzy with weakness. He closed his eyes and wanted nothing more than to be done. Still, Oakenshield's voice chased him. Low and confiding, it lapped at his ears, colored warm by whatever mad, nameless emotions he stirred in the Dwarf's breast.

"My unwed state has been a despair to my sister since she married," continued Oakenshield, "and she is not shy in rallying my cousins, Balin here the worst of them"—a huff from Balin—"to assail me with suitable matches: daughters of the old families; men tall, dark, and dour-handed." Bard did not fail to note that this description, if it were what Oakenshield sought in a lover, fit him, as well. His mouth went dry. "Smaug's death was meant to be the object of an open courtship quest, once the seven Dwarf clans were gathered under the Arkenstone.

"I confess I would not have expected a Man to win my hand, but..." A pause. Which stretched so long Bard finally steeled himself to meet Oakenshield's regard, much as he wished he could remain blind to it. Oakenshield was smiling at him, waiting easily. "I find I am not displeased by it." How unnerving a smile it was! And one that gave Bard no doubt as to the unsaid. _Or with you._

His skin prickled all over, fever-hot. Dwarves were shaped of stone and metal, the legends told. That _smile_—a subtle, pliant bowing of the lips upwards that crinkled the corners of eyes lit from within by some tender spark—did strange, disconcerting things to Oakenshield. Beneath crown, armor, hard strength and unyielding angles was soft flesh, blood and bone, realized Bard, coursing with feeling he could tangle about his fingers like a skein of fine yarn and rip at until it frayed.

"You are mad," Bard croaked, "To think that I slew Smaug to, to win your hand. That I would be pleased by this... _this_." _With you._ Oakenshield's face fell. Bard did not care. He _didn't_. "Ancient Dwarven traditions! What could I know of such, poor bargeman that I am?" He raked a hand through his hair and looked away, swallowing. "You had little good to say of me before, and I can't believe that a dead dragon has so changed your... affections."

Perhaps Oakenshield's lust was honest, though even this Bard struggled to credit, for he was surely no prize in beauty, but there was no trust between them. Oakenshield did not answer. Instead, it was Balin who said, hesitantly, "You truly know naught of the favor slaying a dragon would bring you amongst Dwarves? Lord Girion—"

Bard let out a sharp bark of laughter. "Girion? He's been gone to the grave near two centuries, and however faithfully you Dwarves keep to your customs, I assure you that we Men are more like to forget ours in that time." To his horror, Bard couldn't stop the words tumbling from his mouth. "When should I have considered marriage, my lords, and with any kind of joy? As Laketown burned? While my people are in need of shelter and food? After I've sold my—" Blood welled tangy as he bit his lip.

Oakenshield blanched like Bard had at last driven a sword into his gut; beside him Balin was white as his beard. And Bard regretted his lack of control. _It is wed_, he reminded himself, _or war._

Thranduil and he would have the victory, should it come to battle, but not without losses, for Oakenshield's kin were on the march and he suspected Dwarves attended handfastings as prepared to fight as any army. If he could secure a share of the treasure either way, who was he to ask Men and Elves to die because he would not suffer Oakenshield to bind him and bed him?

He would have to beg Oakenshield's pardon. But Bard again put his back to them all. Just for a moment. Until he shoved the snarled mass of feeling that festered in his chest down enough so he could play his role in this farce and utter whatever vows were required of him without stumbling.

If this was to be his fate, he would walk to meet it of his own will and in as much dignity as he could muster. _Just a moment more..._ He crossed his arms, fingers digging into his coat, and shuddered, his throat threatening to close.

The tense silence behind him was broken, surprisingly, by the Halfling, who spoke in a quiet yet firm voice at odds with his awkwardness of earlier. "I must say I agree with Bard in this. Thorin, you..." A confused, frustrated noise. Bard smiled mirthlessly, glad for the small mercy of not being alone in deeming this madness. "You and he are not even _friends!_ How can you want to, to _marry_ him?" Master Baggins grew louder and more flustered with each sentence, finishing with an unhappy, "I don't understand!"

"Bilbo, I thought you approved of our match," said Oakenshield, sounding hurt and uncertain. The Halfling stammered, trying to both soothe away the pained note in his friend's question and tactfully inform the very same friend that he was in fact quite mistaken. With little success in either, Bard mused, detached. Oakenshield was no more enlightened when he asked, "What else could you have meant by giving the Arkenstone to him?" more tentative than Bard had ever heard him.

"W-Well, I—" Master Baggins sighed, long and with a touch of asperity. "Thorin, I didn't even know why you needed a, a burglar until we were in the Mountain. None of you bothered to tell me about the Arkenstone or gathering the seven Dwarf clans or you being on some, some _courtship quest_ on top of a quest to reclaim your home," he said, "So I can't see why you would think me an expert on Dwarven traditions of any sort." The silence this time took on a faintly embarrassed character. "If you were a bit more plain about what you want from the start," added the Halfling, exasperated but gently so, "I do believe we'd run into fewer of these tight spots."

"Madness this undoubtedly is"—Bard glanced over his shoulder at the Elvenking, a treacherous thread of hope waking in him that Thranduil might offer him another way—"but my counsel is that you wed the Dwarf, Dragonshooter, however... distasteful you find him." He turned from Thranduil's assessing stare, chin dropping and lip twisted in a grimace.

"Alliances of this ilk are not unusual amongst the noble houses of Elves or Men and have been forged for worse reasons than sparing one's people the ravages of war or hunger." The Elvenking was almost... sympathetic. In his steady, deliberate words, an enfolding solace that grounded Bard as though he leant against the trunk of the mightiest tree in the forest, branches spread sheltering above and a cradle of deep roots beneath.

Grateful he was for the Elvenking's support. "The Dwarf will not treat you ill," Thranduil said, and there was an edge of silken menace sheathed in his reassurance that drew a rumbling growl from Oakenshield. "Do you consent to this?" Even if Bard sorely wanted to rail, too, at the absurdity of Thranduil defending his honor like he was the maiden daughter the Elvenking, so far as he knew, did not have.

Before he could answer horns winded wild up the valley along the length of the Mountain's eastern spur. The Men, many of whom had been resting their feet seated upon convenient boulders, scrambled to arms while the Elves nocked arrows to bows as one in a fluid, practiced motion but, at Thranduil's upraised hand, did not draw, weapons lowered in guarded welcome. Soon the new arrivals rounded the ranks of the Elven army: hundreds of Dwarves clad in steel from head to toe, their plaited beards thrust into their belts and heavy mattocks in their hands, moving at great speed despite the shields slung at their backs and packs bulging with supplies.

In the lead was a red-haired Dwarf mounted atop—Bard narrowed his eyes, then goggled—_a pig_, the crest of his helm a bristling flame. Though he was still a goodly distance from them, he hallooed, "_Well met, cousins!_ Me and the lads hurried on through the night, so we're a wee early!" His every word rang clear across the field like a bell, tolling, of a size to comfortably house him and his boar both. "Ah, but I wouldn't miss your wedding for all the gold in Erebor, Thorin! Have you and your dragonslayer signed the prenuptial contract yet?"

Hardly had the echoes faded from the steep rock walls did a ripple of amazed interest pass through the listening Elves and Men, hundreds of necks craning in now unabashed curiosity between Oakenshield's kin and him. The Dwarves of the Iron Hills had come.

Bard finally gave in and buried his face in his hands, a laugh burbling wet up from his throat. He wondered in half-hysterical despair whether it wasn't too late to confess that it hadn't been him who killed Smaug, after all.

**· · ·**

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

Romantically speaking, things go a little sideways for poor Bard in this chapter, with the number of his admirers increasing dramatically. In addition to Thorin and random Dwarves, the following characters are paired with Bard: Bilbo; Hilda and Percy, representing the better half of Laketown's population; random Elves, which may or may not include Thranduil. All the interest is decidedly one-sided, thanks to Bard's obliviousness, and most only mentioned briefly.

* * *

**· · ·**

**Such Fair Ostents**

**· · ·**

Thorin's cousin, Dáin called Ironfoot, was by far the loudest Dwarf Bilbo had ever met. Everything about him was loud, from his red beard, brighter than Glóin's and groomed into the shape of tusks, to the fact that he had ridden up on a fearsomely massive pig. When he spoke, it was a roll of thunder, drums beating in the air, that surely would've sent half the Hobbits in the Shire rabbiting for their holes, their doors slammed shut. Yet Bilbo was inclined to like him.

Dáin had leapt from his boar as if his armor weighed no more than a coat of feathers, tossing his helm to a Dwarf whose duty seemed to be to catch it, his red ax to another, and swept Thorin up in a bone-crushing, back-pounding embrace, laughing. Thorin's despondency lifted a bit, a broad smile spreading slowly across his face. "Dáin, you made it," he said, pleased.

"You ought to know better than to doubt me, Cousin," answered Dáin, huffing in mock outrage to a small chuckle from Thorin. "I'll not have you go to the anvil without a proper honor guard, though our house's well represented enough." He nodded to Balin and the rest of the Company above on the ramparts while Bilbo eyed the ranks upon ranks of Dwarven warriors, mailed in steel, and wondered whether Durin's folk could tell the difference between a wedding and a battle. "Dís is going to have your beard for this," Dáin added, suddenly sheepish, "and maybe mine, too, for rushing on over at your raven 'stead of talking you into puttin' the ceremonies off."

At that, Thorin went grim again, and it was impossible to guess which prospect pained him more: explaining to his sister why he couldn't wait until she was present to wed or to his cousin why there would be no marriage to attend, after all. Thorin's jaw clenched. "Dáin..." he began but couldn't continue, eyes straying as they often had since he, Balin, and Bilbo descended the barricade to Bard's tense figure. Unable to find the words he sought in Bard's crossed arms or the lines of his downturned mouth, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the ground to his left away from any Dwarves, Thorin folded his own arms, chin dropping so low his head bowed.

Bilbo's stomach knotted, aching worse than when he'd overindulged in candied apples at a Litheday festival of his tweens. Thorin was not unlike the mountain he was king under, Bilbo thought. A solitary peak that stood, imposing, unmovable as sun and cloud cast shifting shadows upon its rocky faces; sometimes majestic crowned in snow, sometimes forbidding shrouded in mist. It felt wrong to see him so uncertain. Still unflinching but his presence pulled so tightly within that Bilbo was thrown off-balance, like the Mountain had disappeared behind his back or been replaced by another made of paper instead of stone.

For the hundredth time, he silently berated himself for his foolishness with the Arkenstone. True, Thorin had apparently had courtship on his mind since before their adventure began and not made an attempt to inform Bilbo of it or, really, of much at all save their business with the dragon, so he could hardly be blamed for his nervousness at Thorin acting oddly when an army of Elves and angry fishermen was camped at the gates. But he did not mean to lead Thorin to disappointment. Nor Bard into a corner where he was forced to accept a suit he clearly didn't want.

He shuffled his feet and stared at his toes as they curled in the dirt. His fingers itched to rub the comforting gold band of his magic ring, resting heavy and close to his heart in an inner pocket. As Bilbo debated the merits of ducking around a boulder to slip on his ring and vanish for a short spell, just until things were settled, Dáin was studying Thorin with a shrewd glint in his eye.

Dáin finally clasped Thorin's shoulder, a look of understanding on his bluff face; Thorin, slumping, breathed a too-hasty sigh of relief. "Say no more. Why, when I wed my dearest Eir, my tongue was so clumsy I barely stumbled my way through my vows." He shook his head in fond reminiscence. "You never did like to make the good easy for yourself. Asking the hand of a Man you'd not met a month ago! _Pah!_" Thorin blinked, while worry seeped into the creases of Balin's brow. "Well, fear not! I know my part here and can introduce myself."

Clearing his throat and combing quick fingers through his beard, the bristling ridge of hair on his otherwise clean-shaven head, Dáin surveyed in turn Gandalf, Bilbo, who his curious eyes lingered on for a moment, and the Elvenking, who he dismissed with a grunt, before his gaze found Bard and, with a determined nod, he strode forward to plant himself square in front of the man. His steel-tipped boots were braced wide, his hands gripped on his armored belt. The intent glare he raked Bard from head to toe with was not friendly in the least.

_Oh, no_, thought Bilbo, in growing horror. "Wait, Dáin—" Thorin said, almost pleading, only to be ignored but for a firm, "Hush, Thorin. You cannot spare your dragonslayer this." Bard narrowed his eyes at Dáin, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword and a cold, serpentine menace in the tilt of his head.

In desperation, Bilbo rounded on Gandalf next to him. Who, to Bilbo's ire, had produced his pipe from one sleeve and was thoroughly engrossed in knocking the tamped ash out of it against his staff, propped on his shoulder, unconcerned. "Do something!" Bilbo hissed under his breath. Thorin, he judged, was in no fit state to. Thorin, in fact, couldn't bear to even watch, one hand covering his face, while an anxious Balin waited for direction and the Elvenking seemed entirely too eager for Bard to relieve Dáin of his head.

Gandalf arched one bushy brow at him and whispered back, "I am a Wizard, Bilbo Baggins, not a matchmaker." Bilbo fumed—were all Wizards so frustratingly evasive?—and Gandalf added after a pause, "Besides, I find such matters of the heart have a way of untangling themselves in due time." The corner of his lips quirked up in a sly smile. And Bilbo remembered that Gandalf had been less and less of a help the closer they got to the Mountain, though the quest was as much his idea as Thorin's.

Resigned that there would be no aid from that quarter, Bilbo tried his best not to fret, for panicking never did a body any good. Or so his father had always said, when his mother was in one of her excitable moods. Thorin's head was still sitting sound upon his neck, Bilbo reassured himself, despite how certain he'd been that Bard would smash that head—with, admittedly, its wandering eyes that lacked all discretion—in like an overripe melon once or twice already. Bard had proved a sensible fellow, of the sort Bungo Baggins would've approved of, hadn't he? He could handle Thorin's cousin.

"Are Men so rare a sight to you, Master Dwarf, that you must gape at me like a sun-struck halfwit?" asked Bard, tone deceptively light. _That_, however, was not speech Bilbo's father would have stood for, mannered gentlehobbit that he was; Bilbo groaned, one hand mussing his hair. Dáin merely smiled, and it was as pleasant a baring of his teeth as Bard's words were polite.

"There's no small number of disappointed Dwarves in the Iron Hills," he said, "who had thought to claim for themselves Smaug's death and my cousin's hand." To Bilbo's shock, Dáin spat, viciously, at Bard's feet. "It's a soddin' disgrace that the glory of slaying the greatest wyrm of our age and honor of being seated as consort at the King Under the Mountain's side should go to a baseborn wretch who understands naught of Dwarves, his tattered nobility a thin guise o'er his grasping ambition."

Gone was the Dwarf who'd greeted Thorin so warmly, so enthusiastically and in his place was one who, in his cutting disdain, resembled nobody so much as the Elvenking. Bilbo was startled anew. For he had assumed the wrath of Dwarves to be a burning thing that smoldered like hot coals until it burst forth, a raging fire that could no longer be contained within the forges of Dwarven hearts. Dáin circled Bard as he spoke, his measured steps the prowl of a stalking wolf. Even his rounded burr of an accent, agreeably rustic though foreign to Bilbo's ears, hardened, and calculation lay sharp as a knife hidden up a sleeve behind his eyes.

Yet Bard refused to be cowed. "Are you done, my lord?" he asked simply, when Dáin again stopped before him; he had not turned to follow Dáin's movements. At the curt nod, he continued, "Should the dragon arise from his watery grave, these Dwarves of yours are welcome to try their skill and luck against him, and I would wish them joy of it, but neither you nor they were there when Smaug set upon Laketown, so the task fell to me and little glory or honor did I expect to win for it." Furious as Bard was, his voice was level, if clipped and icy as the lake's dark depths. "The lives of my people are worth more than your praise and titles." Rather, it was the tense slope of his jaw and shoulders, the white of his knuckles around the hilt of his sword that betrayed him.

"Churl I may be to you, my house bereft of lordship," said Bard, and at last Bilbo could hear the lash of anger in every syllable, "but do not forget by whose deed there is once more a King Under the Mountain. I won't be denied my due for that service." He stared down at Dáin, the two of them locked in a silent grapple of wills. Then he added, "I have borne insults enough from your tongue. More and you shall answer for them, Master Dwarf, with your head, beard and all."

Bard's eyes blazed, and his words were a soft hiss through his gritted teeth; Bilbo wondered uneasily whether Smaug hadn't somehow left a bit of himself in his killer. Gandalf would know, wouldn't he, and warn them? But when Bilbo snuck a glance at the Wizard, he found Gandalf's attention fixed on the sky past the Mountain's shoulder, where the eastern spur joined. He barely resisted the urge to stamp his foot. What could be of such interest—a passing bird, a passing cloud—up there?

Dáin held Bard's gaze for so long Bilbo's nose wanted to twitch, then _chuckled_, saying, "Well answered, lad." He clapped Bard low on the back, nearly jolting the surprised man off his feet. The realization dawning on Bard's face was that of somebody who'd learned, too late, that he made a terrible mistake. And Bilbo thought, _Wha—?_ All of Dáin's hostility had vanished into thin air quicker than Bilbo when he put on his ring.

"Your dragonslayer is for sure no halfwit, Thorin! He's got a lick o' fire in his belly, too, dour as he looks." Winking meaningfully at Thorin, Dáin opined in what was probably supposed to be an aside for his cousin's ears, "That's all to the good, as you've two kingdoms between you. And I reckon he'll be a right handful to bed, which is all the better, I tell you!" He slung an arm around Thorin's shoulders and laughed, so loud Bilbo marveled that Thorin wasn't deafened by it. "I gladly give this match my blessing!"

Thorin was so pale that Bilbo feared he might faint, despite his current lack of grievous bodily injury. "Dáin..." he said weakly. He opened and closed his mouth several times, with no intelligible results, before groaning and smacking a hand to his face again while Dáin hummed questioningly. Bard flushed an alarming shade of red. Though whether he was mortified or incensed Bilbo didn't know, if the man could even decide which to be.

Fortunately, perhaps, they were interrupted. An Elven messenger, so light of foot it seemed to Bilbo that he was present in the space of a blink, appeared at his king's elbow. He bowed deep but swiftly and said, "My lords, Prince Legolas begs leave to inform you that Mithrandir's army approaches from the north." Mithrandir was the name the Elves called Gandalf by, Bilbo had discovered in Rivendell, but since when did he also have an army and one on the way here without him? Weren't there only four other Wizards?

It was with a sinking feeling that Bilbo noted Gandalf's sudden graveness and Bard's, a fey gleam in the Elvenking's eyes that caused the hair at the nape of his neck to stand on end. "Gundabad orcs joined by the goblins of the Misty Mountains," the runner continued, unfazed, "in a host ten thousand strong, with many warg riders and a legion of bats." _Oh, no_, thought Bilbo, as Thorin snarled out a hateful _Azog_. These wedding guests were most definitely uninvited and unwelcome. "The scouts on the heights report that the enemy marches fast and will be upon us by midday."

"What's this about Azog?" Dáin asked flatly, arms crossed. "I was looking forward to bloodyin' that sprite's pretty face"—he tipped his chin up in challenge at the Elvenking, who _smiled_—"when time came for you to steal your intended, Thorin, but now I hear the Defiler, cursed be his name, lives and means to offer us battle and no mock fisticuffs either." Bilbo wished he were as calm as Dáin sounded and undaunted at the prospect of fighting a vast horde of orcs. "If this is some joke..."

"No," said Thorin, "that filth has been pursuing us since before we made the mountains." Dáin drew in a sharp breath and nodded grimly, growing grimmer still when Gandalf added, "And in our passage through the mountains, the Great Goblin was slain, for which his kindred no doubt seek revenge." _And there's the treasure, too_, Bilbo mused glumly. If word of Smaug's demise had reached the Elvenking in his secluded woodland halls, who could guess what other ears had been perked by the dragon's unguarded gold.

All in all, there wasn't much chance of Azog marching his army back the way they came upon finding Erebor defended. Elves, Men, and Dwarves together were outnumbered four to one, and while maybe the Elvenking's warriors and Dáin's could kill more than their fair share, Bilbo would count himself lucky if he managed to stick just one orc with his Elvish letter opener and not get his head bashed in doing it by a second one. An impediment that many of the Men were likely also stricken by. Which didn't bode well for his survival or theirs. _Yet, yet..._ His heart thumped, his ring a hard weight tucked snug next to it.

Hadn't he already stood his ground against Azog? Bilbo gulped. Leapt at an orc and stabbed it to death with a fervor he'd never suspected was in him, for Thorin's sake? He needed to remember that and that he was braver now. Why, it'd be a downright embarrassment, wouldn't it, to quail at a, a skirmish with his friends beside him after he went alone into a sleeping dragon's lair?

"I must warn my people in Dale," said Bard, his matrimonial problems forgotten. "We are not fighters, most of us, and though our men at arms shall do what they can, we have families to protect." He apparently came to a decision, tone firming in resolve, save for a rasping thread that reminded Bilbo he had a boy and two girls. "You know more of this foe than I, my lords, and of war. Whatever your counsel is when I return, we will abide by it." With a cursory bow of his head to the group at large, Bard spun on his heel to leave.

"Bard," Thorin called, and Bilbo thought him too distracted to notice that he'd failed to give Bard any title, voice a concerned rumble that stroked as a loving hand would. Bard's spine stiffened at the familiarity. "Bring your women and children to shelter in the Mountain." Bard made no movement, warier than the stray cats Cousin Lalia insisted on feeding. "Dáin has come with supplies enough that, should the battle go ill, we could withstand siege there for days, until more reinforcements arrive from the Iron Hills."

Finally, Bard turned his head and, swallowing, said, "You have my gratitude, Oakenshield," eyes meeting Thorin's but briefly before he strode off at the pace of a man hurrying _away_. Thorin watched Bard retreat, his figure soon lost from view in the eager crowd of Men who gathered about him, recognizing that he had news.

Then, sighing heavily, Thorin answered Dáin's long, considering look with a gritted, "Not now," and said to the Elvenking, Gandalf, "Let us take counsel, as Lord Bard suggested." Bilbo fidgeted. He was really of little use to a council of war. A moment's waffling and, seeing as Gandalf was occupied, he followed after Bard at a trot that each step filled with more purpose.

Bilbo elbowed through the press of too-tall Men, muttering his apologies, to where Bard was being roundly scolded by a dark-haired woman with flashing eyes. He blinked, bemused. "—able-bodied as any man!" she was declaiming, "Why should we women cower like rabbits while our husbands and sons die to defend us?" Some of the other women were nodding, though the rest looked rather more hesitant; said husbands and sons wisely kept their silence. They did, however, cast Bard sympathetic glances as he listened, frowning, to the woman.

"Hilda, if you could let me finish!" he cut in when she paused for breath. A beat, as Bard waited to see whether she would heed him, then he asked the older man beside her, "Percy, there were shortswords in the armory and daggers?" Percy scratched at his grizzled chin but nodded. "Let any woman who wishes to arm herself with them," Bard commanded in a carrying voice, "Spears, too, and bows, if they can draw one.

"I will not allow you," he warned at Hilda's sharp cry of triumph, "to join the first charges." She folded her arms, dissatisfied, yet grudgingly held her protests when Bard raised a hand. "You are to be our last line of defense, before the gates of Erebor," he said in a tone that brooked no argument, "and if we have been driven so far back, we shall have need of you, with your strength _unspent_, to make safe our retreat and the Mountain itself."

Hilda squinted suspiciously at Bard, who bore it with a stern, weary patience—worry roiled under his skin but not the slightest hint that he was humoring her—and was mollified. Bilbo, meanwhile, couldn't help fretting about how both Thorin and Bard planned to be besieged almost as though it were a forgone conclusion. The _cram_ that was all the Company had to eat these past few days threatened to unstick itself from the pit of his stomach and retrace its path back up to his mouth. He did not want to be trapped in Erebor's echoing halls, which were still more tomb than city. One that smelled faintly of dragon. _Better than dying_, Bilbo berated himself, and he would be among friends either way.

"Anyone else have concerns?" None spoke, Bard searching the fearful but determined faces around him. "Then spread the word," he finally said, with a grim nod, "Arm yourselves and collect what supplies you can from the city. It must be emptied before midday. Those who mean to fight, return here to await orders; the rest, make haste for the Mountain."

The Men dispersed. Some towards where their fellows stood in anxious knots expecting news, many more across the field towards Dale at a run, and all of them only after a respectful "milord" to Bard, a knuckle to the forehead or even an unpracticed bow, that he plainly had no idea how to react to, shifting uncomfortably in half a wince each time. Until Bard was left alone, attended by just Bilbo, Hilda, and Percy. Who cleared his throat and shuffled his feet with the air of a man who had an urgent question but was certain he'd lose his tongue for asking it. Bard sighed. "What is it, Percy?"

Percy couldn't quite meet Bard's eyes as he mumbled to his boots, "The lads, you see, are wonderin' w-whether you..." He trailed off. Bilbo had a good suspicion as to where this was headed, and it seemed Bard did, too, his expression souring and reluctance to hear more written in every line of his body. Which might have deterred Percy, had he not been too busy hemming and hawing to notice.

At last, though, Percy mustered his courage with a deep breath and blurted in a rush, "Are you to wed the Dwarf king, Bard? After the battle. To, to seal an alliance or, or for a share of the treasure? I don't imagine it's for any, uh, husbandly duties?" He laughed, sending nervous glances in Bard's general direction.

Hilda coughed delicately into her sleeve; Bard pinched the bridge of his nose. Percy, Bilbo thought, was very wrong about that. Thorin gazed upon Bard with the heat of—and the tips of Bilbo's ears warmed, as a part of him squirmed at the impropriety of it all—a lover, intent on branding the long stretch of the man's bare skin with his eyes through clothes and mail, from ten paces away.

Bard sighed again and said, tiredly, "How much did you hear?" He didn't sound hopeful that Percy and the others had chanced on a marriage proposal in harmless, idle gossip about why the negotiations were stalled.

"That new Dwarf," said Percy, apologetic now, "The one who rode up on a pig?" As if on cue, Dáin's voice drifted to them on a breeze, unmistakable and ungarbled despite the distance that thinned it to a solitary horn blowing instead of dozens. Bilbo unconsciously craned his neck, the better to eavesdrop, as did Percy and Hilda.

Dáin was patting a dejected Thorin on the back as the two sat shoulder to shoulder on a piece of rubble, watching the Dwarves of the Iron Hills haul their packs into the Mountain and do mysterious stonework on the barricaded gates. "_Och!_ I've gone and put my foot in it, haven't I?" Thorin slumped lower, elbows landing on his knees and face in his hands. "I shall have to make my apologies to your dragonslayer soon as he returns. Though, Thorin, you'd best set your mind to wooin' that poor lad right. You cannot let him..."

To Bilbo, Hilda, and Percy's mutual disappointment, the wind turned and they could listen no further. Percy finished, rather unnecessarily, "He's a mite... loud." Bard's face contorted in a complicated fashion Bilbo likely could not have understood even if he'd known Bard for years. _He_ already felt wretched about the whole affair, torn between wanting to support Thorin in this courtship, his friend in earnest, and beg forgiveness of Bard for the dreadful inconvenience, and his was but a bit role.

"I don't know what to do, Percy," Bard admitted, swallowing hard. _Well_, Bilbo told himself, _it's not a quick rejection at least._ That ought to please Thorin. "I've been thinking..." Rubbing the nape of his neck with one hand, Bard looked more untrustworthy than when the Company had hired him as a smuggler, eyes skittering to the side.

"Oakenshield's sister-sons were in Laketown when the dragon came," he said carefully, "but I've heard from my children that neither they nor their two companions or the Elves saw the end of my stand against Smaug. I am only known as a dragonslayer by my word and that of our people. So why can I not deny the deed?" He raked agitated fingers through his hair. "Let another take the credit—one who doesn't object to wedding Oakenshield—and I shall be glad of it!"

All of them stared, gape-mouthed, at Bard. _But that's ridiculous_, thought Bilbo, before pausing, because why was it so far-fetched? He himself had not seen Smaug's death, just his fall, and had doubted, too, that Bard, whose hands were surely more often plying his barge than his bow, was capable of killing such a beast. Percy chuckled, at first weakly, then with growing conviction. "Don't jest, Bard!" he scoffed, "Nobody'd believe that!"

Bard crossed his arms, expression mulish. "And why not?" he demanded of Percy, who wilted under his glare. Bilbo's nose twitched. There was something very odd about this. While reason suggested that it need not have been Bard who slew Smaug, at the moment Bilbo struggled to picture how anyone else could've done it, like he were reading one of the adventure tales his mother had been so fond of and, _of course_, the nameless knight errant who appeared midway in was the heir to the kingdom, on a quest that would inevitably lead to a dead dragon and true love.

He supposed, slightly hysterical, that this made Thorin Bard's distressed—_and distressing_, his mind added in his mother's most impish voice—damsel. Percy, in the meantime, was floundering. "W-Well, because, because you're..." He flapped a frantic hand up and down Bard's tall, lean frame. Not gesturing to any feature in particular, so much as to all of Bard at once.

"I'm _what?_" growled Bard. Suddenly, Bilbo was very aware of how nicely Bard's new clothes suited him. His shoulders were broad beneath the blue coat, his chest strong but not too thick. It lent his form a clean, supple grace, quite like the swept back arms of a strung longbow, actually, unassuming power held in check, and... and had his waist always been so, so trim? His eyes lingering on the curve of Bard's belt as it dipped over a hipbone, Bilbo couldn't blame Thorin for his fascination. Who wouldn't be at all that Bard's drab, roughspun and shapeless, had hidden? _Oh, my..._ Bilbo wet his lips, mouth parched. His skin felt tight and shivery.

Percy made an inarticulate noise, flushing red as Bilbo's prize tomatoes, then white, then red again. "...you're _you_," he choked out. Immediately after which he fled, head ducked in a jerky bow to Bard he didn't bother to straighten from as he crossed the field towards a wagonload of supplies bound for the Mountain, trailing his embarrassment like the stench of fish downwind of Laketown.

Bilbo could sympathize. Apologizing to Bard was going to be difficult enough without him fumbling in, in girlish infatuation. His face warmed. Thank goodness the man's attention was presently elsewhere! "Has _everybody_ gone mad?" cried Bard, bewildered and direly unhappy about it. His brow furrowed, and Bilbo had to bite his tongue against the urge to smooth those lines away.

It hadn't been like this before, had it? Charmed, yes, Bilbo was by Bard's home and Bard's family: the former spare and cramped but well loved by the knickknacks tucked into the corners, the sanded surface of the table and mismatched plates, scrubbed to a shine; the latter healthy and content, their affection for one another a glow undimmed despite the unexpected crowd of soggy, sullen Dwarves. He was so grateful then to be indoors by a roaring fire, wrapped in quilted blankets and handed a steaming bowl of fish chowder, that he didn't question his regard for their host. Hilda huffed.

"Percy's just trying to tell you what we women've been doing for _years_, Bard," she said with a shake of her head, tone exasperated but expression fond. "To no avail, because quick as you are 'bout other things, you're blind and deaf when it comes to this." She stepped close to Bard, who tensed as if bracing for an attack, and gently cupped his cheek. Her gaze softened, and her smile belonged to a younger, shyer woman; it was a touch coy and fresh as the scent of flowers on a bright spring morn. "A sweet fool."

Though Bilbo didn't think Bard could look more startled than he had at Thorin's proposal of marriage from the ramparts, it was a near miss as Hilda's thumb traced the arch of his cheekbone in an intent, circling caress. "Nobody with a lick o' sense, Dwarf or no," she explained, slow and clear, "will want to settle for one of us when they've a fair shot at you." Bard stepped back out of her reach, face gone politely blank; she let him with a small, rueful sigh at his uneasiness. Then she smirked, full of terrible mischief, and said, "Why, there wasn't a woman in Laketown who wouldn't've jumped at a chance to bed you and not a few o' the men, too, I reckon."

Now Bard looked positively flabbergasted. Dazed, he asked in a rasping croak, "...the men, too?" Bilbo sorely wanted to bundle the poor, confused dear into an armchair and feed him tea and biscuits until he was ready to live in a world where, evidently, half his neighbors had romantic designs on him that he'd no inkling of.

Following Bard's stare to the group of Men unloading wagons at Erebor's gates, Hilda said breezily, "Oh, I don't know about Percy, but didn't you ever wonder why your archery students were so clumsy all the time?" Bard grimaced, which Bilbo took as agreement that his students were indeed undeserving of their bows, but seemed reluctant to learn he had yet more secret admirers.

"I... I thought I was a poor teacher," he finally said, voice little louder than a whisper, "and, and they kept paying for lessons out of pity." By Bard's tentative air, he'd already guessed that he was wrong and, by the end of his sentence, was resigned to being so. Hilda threw back her head and laughed. It was a merry sound that cheered Bilbo.

"No, you were a fine teacher!" she assured Bard, who was briefly, quietly relieved, "Patient and well spoken. Certainly the best bow in town!" Any pride he might have felt at that, however, was buried in apprehension as Hilda eyed him, her mirth curling up the corners of her lips. "The trouble with your students," she told him matter-of-factly, "was that they didn't find stance or targets so interestin' a study as you." Bard choked. He covered his face with a hand that didn't manage to hide the red that crept into his cheeks while Hilda chortled, alight with a teasing glee. "And you didn't help with distractin' 'em!" she added, "Always _leanin'_ to murmur in their ears, runnin' your hands all over them..."

And then it was Bilbo's turn to choke. Bard had very nice hands. They weren't clean, fingers pale and slender like the Elvenking's—dirt lined his nails and was smudged across his knuckles, his palms—and were roughened by labor, blunt and sturdy, skin browned by the sun. But there was a fineness of movement to them. Maybe because of Bard's skill as an archer?

Bilbo didn't know. He only knew that remembering Bard's hands sure and steady on the tiller of his barge, the way they'd gripped and slid, firm to guide but not harsh, and held his children later, fingers splayed wide to gather as much of them to him as he could in a tender, careful press... It, it was...

With a muffled groan, Bilbo rubbed at his face, silently cursing this ill-timed revelation that Bard was, well, a rather handsome man. Not to mention a dragonslayer, noble and valiant, straight from the pages of his mother's tales. _Who Thorin wishes to marry_, he admonished himself sternly, _so don't you be getting any funny ideas, Bilbo Baggins!_

Hilda had a funny idea of her own, if the playful gleam in her eye was anything to judge by. "Now, Bard," she said, "you keep in mind that the surest way to rid yourself of an unwanted suitor is to wed another." Fast as one of Bard's arrows, she darted in and pecked him on the lips, sidling away, grinning, before he could do more than jerk back and sputter her name. "There's plenty o' us who'd be happy to do you that favor." And with a parting wink at Bard, Hilda left them, a jaunty swing to her hips.

That was too much for Bard. He laughed wildly—or sobbed or both together, Bilbo couldn't tell—until he was shudderingly breathless, shoulders heaving, and sat down, hard, on the ground, legs flung out haphazardly. It was probable, admitted Bilbo, that Bard was in no mood for further talk, but... _If I don't make amends now, I may not be able to._ With this sobering thought to fortify his nerves, Bilbo approached the man like he would one of Cousin Lalia's cats and cleared his throat.

"Master Baggins?" Bard squinted up at him, half nonplussed that he was there and half mistrustful of his intentions. "Do you want something of me?" asked Bard warily, "Not my hand in marriage, I hope?" His mouth twisted in a crooked smile, wry and bitter, that failed to reach his darkened eyes. "Though why not? Since it seems my... _appeal_"—he almost spat the word—"has no bounds and, as they say, the more, the merrier."

Strange of Bilbo to notice as they were boring holes through his skull, but Bard's eyes were a striking, changeable green. He shook his head dumbly. "Uh, n-no..." That would hardly be honorable to Thorin. Coughing, he tried again. "No, of course not!" When his denial, which may have been a little shrill, drew a wince from Bard, he offered, haltingly, "And surely it's not so bad as that? The Elves, at least—" Bard snorted.

"A number of them were quite keen on... seeing my bow," he said flatly, "and even after I told them it was naught but a simple yew longbow and lost with Laketown, besides, they were not deterred, begging a show of the skill that slew Smaug." He chuckled. It was too jagged a sound to be pleasant on the ears. "Fool that I am, I believed them to be mocking me, for no Man can match the aim of the Elves, and would make my excuses." He folded his legs in and hunched over, the heels of his palms pressed to his eyes, and for a moment Bilbo panicked, fearing tears. Thankfully, Bard had proven his mettle against a foe greater in horror than the most determined suitors, regardless of how many. "To long, blinking _stares_ that I... I just ignored." His tone was dry as dust and self-deprecating.

_Oh._ Bilbo fidgeted, not certain he understood. Wasn't it natural for the Elves to be curious about Bard's mastery of the bow? Granted, one would also assume the Elvenking's warriors had duties enough to occupy them, what with the Men in need of aid and a looming war with the Dwarves, that they wouldn't persist in pestering Bard so, unless... _Oh!_ His insides wriggled distractingly until he had to fist his hands and curl his toes. Whether the Elvenking was among the number who'd waylaid Bard should be no concern of his, though they were _awfully_ friendly...

"I'm sorry, Bard. Very sorry," he blurted, before his thoughts could wander to impropriety, "Truly, I had no idea of Thorin's w-wedding plans when I gave you the Arkenstone." Bard's watchful patience was difficult to bear; his gaze hung like a millstone around Bilbo's neck. Head bowing under that heavy weight, Bilbo couldn't help it and babbled, not bothering to stop for air.

"Which, which I knew was precious to Thorin—was betting on that, in point of fact, a, a barter for the gold you were promised—but I didn't know why, not really, and I, well, I simply wanted to tell you I feel _dreadful_ for all this, all the hassle I've caused you." His heedless rush came to an abrupt halt. _I did it._ An apology, fumbling as it was, and now he could only wait, gulping, for Bard to condemn or forgive him. "And I was so proud of my cleverness, too," he muttered glumly, shuffling his feet.

Bard said nothing for what seemed to Bilbo hours, long and stifling as the ever present gloom that dwelt in the Mountain's halls. Finally, slowly: "This is no fault of yours." Relief crashed over Bilbo's head, unexpectedly fierce, and rattled him down to his bones. He heard no anger nor resentment in those words, deserving as he was of blame by any measure, for acting in ignorance and haste. With a shaky breath, he risked a glance at Bard. Who was smiling.

It was the barest curve of his lips, more a shade than a shape, and Bilbo couldn't miss the strain it cost Bard to feign that he was untroubled, his comfort a tremulous thing, but the sight pushed and shoved at the walls of Bilbo's heart from within, until his whole chest felt fit to burst, far too small to contain his sudden affection, flaring hot and bright, for this man, this _good_ man. "You meant well, on everyone's behalf," Bard continued, "and that counts for much, to me, no matter how this ends." His eyes found Thorin, gesturing to a tall hill on the southern spur while the Elvenking, surprisingly, nodded, and his expression turned pensive. "We all must make the best of what we're given."

Ai, but Bilbo ached at that resigned acceptance! Joy was too much to ask of Bard, for a betrothal, plighted out of his people's desperate need for gold, to a Dwarf he'd spent more time quarreling with than in friendship. Yet Thorin would not want their union to be a sacrifice or a hardship. And Bilbo did not doubt that he would be bending every last bit of his considerable will, that fabled Dwarven stubbornness, towards soothing Bard's worries, now that he'd glimpsed their depths.

"I know you and Thorin didn't, didn't exactly"—Bilbo struggled to put into kinder terms the way they were always at cross purposes—"set off on the right foot." Of course, soon as the words left his mouth, he could've slapped himself about the ears. Bard didn't have to be reminded of that!

Looking unspeakably weary, Bard sighed. "Master Baggins..." Bilbo paused, a pang stabbing through him at Bard's stillness, fragile as eggshell-thin porcelain, then decided he owed this to Bard and to Thorin, too. So, he forged on, back stiffening in resolve.

"He can be rude and thoughtless," he said, "unreasonable and unbudging as his mountain when his temper's up." Recalling Thorin's earlier dismissal of him as a useless, bumbling coward, Bilbo frowned, before giving himself another mental shake. "But he's honestly not so bad, once you get to know him." He bobbed his head and smiled, reassuringly, he hoped. "He's become a good friend to me, one I wouldn't trade for all the treasure in, in the world, and I'm sure he'll be to you a g—"

"_Bilbo_," hissed Bard, jaw clenching, and Bilbo was so startled by the sound of his personal name on Bard's tongue that he squeaked. "I appreciate," said Bard, calmer, "that you wish for Oakenshield's success, but this is between him and me, and we..." He swallowed. "We must reach an accord, the two of us, apart from our friends and followers. If this, this alliance is to work."

Then Bard laughed again, a quiet huffing that was not without a certain droll bemusement. "I never could've imagined any of this happening to me," he said, burying his face in his hands in an already practiced motion. Bilbo made the appropriate noises of sympathy. For one, he'd rather be enjoying a leisurely elevenses than preparing to meet a horde of orcs in battle, but did he regret stepping on the road from Bag End? He patted Bard awkwardly on the shoulder and thought that Gandalf had been right, after all.

**· · ·**

_END_

* * *

There will be no sequel wedding. Feel free, however, to pretend I wrote a whole novel's worth of Thorin wooing Bard slowly and thoughtfully until he at last wins the hand of his tall, dark, and dour love.


End file.
